


Soft Serve

by ToxicBabes



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Ice Cream, M/M, not really romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 19:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17188880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToxicBabes/pseuds/ToxicBabes
Summary: Thermite figures ice cream would cheer up a travel-sick Thatcher.





	Soft Serve

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't romantic but you can imagine it to be, whatever floats your boat. I have a million WIPs and this was one I started at about 2AM last night, and managed to finish because I intended it to be short. I'm a big fan of Thatcher and Thermite's relationship in game (goddamn electrified/jammed walls) and I was inspired to write something flowery/descriptive after literally reading one chapter of Steinbeck's 'The Grapes of Wrath' so here you go, enjoy.
> 
> Check me out on tumblr at a-r-k-t-i-c

The trucks came to a halt at a gas station. Jet-lagged operatives of Rainbow stepped out onto the scorching asphalt to stretch their cramped legs, only for them to climb back inside, craving the blast of the air conditioning. For Thermite, he missed his kind of weather. The stuffy air was cosy to him, nothing smelled better than the raw dust of the dirt roads and he loved the way the sun felt whipping down against the back of his neck, how the heat skittered across his scarred forearms. He watched with a small smile on his face as Doc hounded his teammates to slather some sunblock on their skin, figuring it was to prevent Rook from turning red as a lobster later on.

For a while he loitered around the trucks, hands in the pockets of his fatigues as he strolled a couple feet, stopped to study the glint of a bottle cap on the sandy ground or the birds that were perched upon the trees, the colonies of ants swarming around a dropped lollipop, feeding on it. There wasn’t much to do, this was only a ten minute restroom break and they didn’t have any time at the airport to exchange their British pounds into American dollars. Only a few of them had spare change to buy a drink or a snack from the gas station and Thermite pondered on the possibility he might have some dollars lying around- he had a bad habit of leaving change in old clothes and bags.

Thermite wandered some more until he found himself staring at the truck occupied by the SAS. The truck doors were opened and Thatcher was leaning against the dusty side of the vehicle, his hairy arms crossed over his broad chest, eyes staring absently at the window of the gas station. He certainly looked weary, from the white hairs sprouting in his beard to his faint wrinkles, downcast gaze hidden behind a pair of bushy eyebrows. As Thermite sauntered closer their eyes met and Thatcher nodded at him, brows twitching upwards in curiosity.

“Heya Mike, how you holding up?” Thermite asked, offering him a smile which was returned. “Enjoying the weather?”

Thatcher gave a gruff chuckle and shifted closer into the shade where the sun couldn’t reach him. His forearms along with the stretch of skin across his cheeks to his nose bridge were a rosy colour, kissed by the sun and light freckles were beginning to show. “It’s pretty fookin’ hot out here, alright. I can’t say I enjoy it but it’s better than it pissing down like it does in England,” he said and gave a shrug, a hand reaching up to scratch his overgrown stubble. “What about you, Jordan? You seem happy.”

Thermite nodded and brought his gaze to the horizon, admiring the stretches of wavering roads, the sight of massive trucks zooming by, some with dark smoke sputtering out the exhaust, the kind that stank up the car if one was unfortunate enough to be driving behind. “Happy to be home, yeah,” he said and hummed softly under his breath, reminiscing about the road trips of his youth. He shook himself out of his fantasies then gave Thatcher a firm pat on the shoulder. “Well, I’m going to see if I can knick a few dollars off Miles. I’m hungry as hell.”

“Right, mate. See you.”

It turned out Castle used the last dollar he had to purchase some Gatorade. Thermite dug through his rucksack one last time and at the bottom he managed to fish out two ancient looking dollar bills, crumpled and more wrinkled than his own great grandfather but still considered legal currency. A cool blast of air hit him as he strolled into the gas station, eyes scanning the shelves of crisps, racks of chocolates and sweets, all tempting him. He looked briefly at the sandwiches for sale but decided he wanted something sweet. As he reached for a bag of jolly ranchers he paused, his attention captured by the glowing neon sign of soft serve ice cream. Medium cone for a dollar, chocolate sprinkles fifty cents extra.

Thermite looked down at the straightened dollar bills, considering for a moment then he looked back up, briefly catching glimpse of Thatcher still standing there, seeming crestfallen in the sweltering heat. Travelling had always made the older man miserable, he had a terrible case of travel sickness which no amount of medicine could tame. With an idea in mind, Thermite figured he could survive without the sprinkles and ordered two medium ice creams.

“Mike, quick!”

Thatcher looked up alarmed to find Thermite trotting towards him, dust swirling around his boots with every step. There was an ice cream in each hand, slowly liquifying in the summer heat, trickling down the sugar cone into the napkin. His smile was like the first beam of sunlight after a rainstorm and in silence he handed over the ice cream, making sure Thatcher had it grasped firmly before he let go. Thermite quickly lapped at the melting droplets threatening to fall off the edge of his own cone, making an odd noise as some of it trickled down his hand and between his fingers.

“Eat it,” he urged, his tone insistent- or perhaps imploring, as Thatcher stared at his cone with hesitation, face still as pale as it was on the plane. “You’ll feel better.”

Seeing as he had no choice, Thatcher gave him a small smile and started eating it. A few drops fell onto the ground which the ants gladly claimed, many of them crawling over their boots and scrambling towards the milky droplets of ice cream. For Thermite he had inhaled his ice cream within seconds, reminded of how Pulse always compared him to a dog, happy-go-lucky and demolisher of anything edible. The sweetness lingered on his tongue long after and he stood content, taking in the fresh air. And like the sweetness, he lingered nearby Thatcher, keeping him company while everyone else had disappeared to find a toilet, scrounge a dollar off a stranger or they were waiting in the long line of their other colleagues trying to buy three dollars worth of food using a credit card.

He looked warmly towards the older man and watched him nibble at the last remaining bits of the cone. “Better?” He asked with a quiet chuckle. 

Thatcher wiped at his lips with his napkin and nodded back. “Yeah. Better,” he agreed then his brow twitched upwards. “How come you didn’t get sprinkles? You always do.”

“Then I wouldn’t be able to get you ice cream,” Thermite said, his grin turning coy yet never faltering. There was a momentarily pause between them, filled by the sound of truck doors thumping shut, someone squealing because ‘ _ is that a bee? Oh fuck, that’s a wasp!’  _ and the rumble of other vehicles rolling into the gas station, old brakes wailing.

Thatcher’s smile widened in gratitude, he gave a quiet huff, seeming skeptical but he knew Thermite was not one for dishonesty. “Thanks,” he murmured back and his attention shifted to his teammates returning to their vehicles in one big flock, holding their coffees and sandwiches with worn expressions. He looked back at Thermite one last time, his hand reaching for the door handle. “I owe you a pint.”


End file.
